"Ah," Shakespeare said: the most noncommittal noise he could make. He'd thought what she did to Jack Street then was witchcraft, and no mere sleight. His landlady's fear-filled eyes said she thought the same.
"And then," Lope went on, "and then. " He shot a furiously burning glare at the cunning woman. "And then she did lie with me in love, to maze me further and lead me astray from my purpose in coming hither.
Nor did she fail of hers." Reproach filled his voice. For himself or for her? Shakespeare wondered.
Belike both. His own gaze flicked from de Vega to Cicely Sellis and back again. He hadn't expected to be so jealous of the Spaniard.
Jealousy wasn't what Jane Kendall felt. "So thou art a doxy, then," she spat at Cicely Sellis. "Whore!
Trull! Poxy callet!"
"Oh, be still, you stale, mouse-eaten cheese," the cunning woman replied. "Your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of those French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats dryly."
The Widow Kendall stared, popeyed with fury. Having had a husband, she surely was no virgin. And yet, after what she'd called the younger woman, the word seemed to stick to her, and in no flattering way.
Calmly, Cicely Sellis nodded to Shakespeare. "Ay, I lay with him. Both you and he had made it pikestaff plain somewhat of no small import was afoot, the which he must not let nor hinder. I lay with him, and thought of England."
"Of England?" Lope yelped. "I on her belly fell, she on her back, and she bethought her of England?
Marry, what a liar thou art, Mistress Sellis! 'Twas not of England, but of thy-" He seemed to have lost the English word. Shakespeare did not supply it. De Vega, miffed and more than miffed, addressed his words to him: "I do assure you, Master Will, her caterwauls were like to those coming from the throat of this accursed beast, her witchy familiar." He jerked a thumb towards Mommet.
The cat arched its back and hissed. Cicely Sellis flushed. By that, Shakespeare judged she likely had thought of other things besides England when she bedded Lope, and taken more pleasure than she cared to admit now. But that didn't mean she hadn't thought of England. And if she'd kept the Spanish officer from going through the papers in Shakespeare's chest, she might have saved the uprising. Had the dons had even a few hours to make ready. Shakespeare didn't want to think about that.
He said, "One may do for love of country that which one would not else." De Vega howled. The Widow Kendall sniffed. The cunning woman nodded again. Was that relief on her face? Shakespeare couldn't be sure, not least because up till now she'd always been so much in control of herself that he didn't recall her wearing such an expression before.
"I still say-" Jane Kendall began.
"Wait, an't please you," Shakespeare said. His landlady blinked; he seldom presumed to interrupt her. He went on, "You were wise, Mistress Kendall, to say not that which may not be mended. For the times do change, will you or nill you, and it will go hard for those who change not with them."
The times would change, if the rebellion succeeded. He didn't know it would. But the Widow Kendall didn't know it wouldn't. And, as one who'd shown herself to be a devout Catholic these past ten years, she stood to lose perhaps a great deal if people she knew denounced her. She licked her lips.
Shakespeare could see that realization growing in her. She must have seen-the dons had made sure all England saw-what happened to stubborn Protestants. With a new spin of the wheel, it would be the Papists' turn. She exhaled with what might have been anger, but said not another word.
Cicely Sellis nodded towards Lope. "What would you with him, Master Will?" she asked.
"I?" Shakespeare sounded startled, even to himself. He'd never held a man's life in his hands before. If he cut de Vega's throat here in the parlor, no one would think the less of him (save possibly Jane Kendall, on account of the mess it would make). If. He sighed and shook his head. "I have not the murtherer's blood in me," he said, as if someone had claimed he did. "He acted but from duty, and from loyalty to his own King. Let him be made prisoner, to be ransomed or exchanged or otherwise enlarged as fate allow."
"Gramercy," Lope said softly. "I am your servant." He managed a ragged chuckle. "And, but for yon witch, I should have made a splendid Don Juan de IdiA?quez."
That jerked a laugh and a nod from Shakespeare. "Ay, belike," he said, and then, " 'Twould like me one day to see King Philip on the stage. An you bide yet in England, Master Lope, the part's yours."
De Vega gave him a crooked grin. "With our Lord, I say, let this cup pass from me."
Shakespeare had had that thought, too. "Come now," Shakespeare said, gesturing towards the door with his knife. "I will give you over into the charge of those whose duty is to take captives, for I know there be such men. Think not to flee, neither. You have yielded-and flight would prove the worse for you, we English holding London."
"Before God, I shall not flee." As Lope got to his feet, he put a hand to his bruised head. "Before God, I cannot flee far. But I would not, even if I could. I have seen your London wolves stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining at the start, and would not have them dog my heels."
"Let's away, then," Shakespeare said. "By my troth, I'll give you into the hands of none others but them that will hold you safe until you may once more be set at liberty." De Vega nodded. Even that small motion must have pained him, for he hissed and gingerly touched his head again. Shakespeare made a leg at Jane Kendall and Cicely Sellis. "Farewell, ladies."
His landlady dropped him an awkward curtsy by way of reply. Cicely Sellis dipped her head, murmuring,
"I stand much in your debt, Master Will."
And how would I have that debt repaid? he wondered. In the same coin she gave the Spaniard? He shoved Lope. "Let's away," he said again, sounding rough as a soldier.
He didn't have to take de Vega far. They'd just come out into Bishopsgate Street when a fresh column of captives shambled down from the north. "Move along, you poor cuckoldy knaves; you louts; you remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villains," shouted the Englishman at their head. "Ay, move along, or 'twill be the worse for you, you blackguards, you virgin-violators, you inexcrable dogs." Most of the Spaniards couldn't have understood a word of the abuse he showered on them, but they did understand they had to keep moving.
Shakespeare waved to that loud Englishman, calling, "Bide a moment! I've another don here, for to add to your party."
"Well, bring him on, then, the damned murtherous fat-kidneyed rascal," the fellow replied.
Careless of whatever anguish it might have cost, Lope gave him a courtier's bow. "I am thy servant, thou proud disdainful haggard," he said.
It must have sounded like praise to the Englishman. "You're a sweet-tongued losel, eh?" he said. "Belike the lickerish ladies think the same?" De Vega nodded, which the man didn't seem to expect. He jerked a thumb towards the captives. "Get in amongst 'em. No trouble, or you'll be sorry for it."
"I am already sorry for it," Lope replied, but he took his place with the rest of the Spaniards. Away they went, down deeper into London.
As Shakespeare turned back towards his lodging-house, a brisk spatter of gunfire rang out not too far away: close enough, at any rate, for him to hear the cries of wounded men immediately afterwards. The fight for London hadn't quite finished. He couldn't tell whether the cries were in English or Spanish. Men in torment sounded much the same in either language.